


Send More Pics

by kleine_aster



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Photographs, Secret Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about how Damian is an awkward teen and Dick is very photogenic. And then a follow-up because I couldn’t leave my boy Damian hanging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Send More Pics

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the amazing [snackage](http://snackage.tumblr.com/) in the [DCU Fic Hunt.](http://dcufichunt.tumblr.com/post/58668456364/dcu-fic-hunt-fics-2013) :)

After the fact, Damian was almost positive that Grayson hadn’t  _meant_  to taunt him. The man not only had a sentimental weakness for him, but an almost disturbing lack of innate cruelness, as well. It didn’t seem  _like_  him to torment Damian on purpose. But the point was, he did it, anyway.

It was Damian’s sixteenth birthday, and by that time, he’d already cemented his reputation as the most insufferable teenager to ever live in the Manor; and this was a place that once housed a teenage Bruce Wayne. He didn’t get along with anybody except for Titus, Batcow, and Alfred - that was, Alfred the  _cat_ , not the _butler_. He’d even managed to alienate  _Pennyworth_ , and that was no small feat.

Damian felt as if it wasn’t his fault. It was the world against him, not the other way around. He couldn’t help it if everyone thought his clever witticisms were hurtful. He couldn’t help that his school’s headmaster administered arbitrary qualifiers like “doesn’t play well with others” to his grades. He couldn’t help that girls suddenly bewildered him and other boys made him feel … agitated. Or that his body was doing strange things that made him furious and eager to pick fights with everyone, all the time. That made him growl and snarl whenever the people around him tried to put him into fancy suits – or worse,  _casual wear_  - and drag him out into the sun. Or, in the most egregious display of bad judgement, tried to get him to  _talk about his feelings_. Such nonsense. His Father was a smart and powerful man, and  _he_  only talked about his feelings every three years or so.

Damian didn’t want these feelings, so he would not discuss them, period.

 

And Grayson. Grayson was the  _worst_. He’d always try to inflict his good mood on him. He’d never bite whenever Damian tried to get a decent fight off the ground, which was a problem, because fighting was his primary way to communicate with people. (And he did miss communicating with Grayson to some degree.) He’d always act as if he  _liked_  being around Damian - as if scaling the same stupid skyscraper in the same stupid city with him for the millionth time was  _so exciting_. As if playing their old Swordwalkers characters wasn’t totally boring to him (Grayson had never really cared for, or fully grasped video games; it seemed like he was born to be out under the sun). Damian secretly believed that all that niceness  _had_  to be deceptive, and he never stopped needling him to reveal it. That way, he’d feel less like an idiot when his former Batman eventually got tired of hanging out with a pouty teenage boy. But Grayson wasn’t only persistent, he was also quite convincing. However, that meant nothing. He had a background in show business.

Anyway. It was his sixteenth birthday, and Grayson couldn’t come. He was on an undercover recon mission, posing as a playboy on some private island at the other end of the world. Of course, Damian had let him know, repeatedly, that it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t important, and who cared, anyway. Even though a tiny part of him had hoped he’d make it back in time; but that part of him was dumb, and he wished not to engage it.

Grayson couldn’t come … but he sent him an e-mail.

Damian’s birthday was nearly over when he got to read it, at 23:58 in his room, when the celebrations had mercifully ended. Pennyworth had insisted a boy do something on his sixteenth, and somehow he and Father had convinced their fellow crimefighters to come, even though there was not a single person there that Damian  _hadn’t_  insulted at some point. They had vegetarian hot dogs on the terrace, and Alfred had prepared him a luxurious ice cream cake that made him feel undeserving and ungrateful on sight, and his Father had given him a very personal gift (Martha Wayne’s old easel and sketchbooks) that made him unsure how to react. He also received another motorbike, and everyone insisted he sit on it while they took pictures of him frowning with his arms crossed. He was uncomfortable in his crisp shirt, uncomfortable in his body, he kept thinking he had sweat stains all over, and that everyone was noticing that one pimple he had on his chin, and how he had so much more hair than he used to, and in odd places. He spent the evening in prolonged terror that one of the Batgirls would ask him to dance, or that Father would want him to say a few words, a sublime fear that was so much worse than going head-to-head with Killer Croc. And the only thing he could think of to combat all that was to be extra-sarcastic to everyone, which went over about as well as expected.

He wondered if it would’ve been better or worse with Grayson there. Probably worse. But his absence was still … felt.

And then, Father had said there’d be no patrol that night, which was about the only thing in the world that Damian  _did_  like to do. He cancelled patrol  _on his birthday_. Another brief, harsh growling match later, he found himself alone in his room.

Well. He wasn’t going to listen to him. He was sixteen now, a grown man. He’d sneak downstairs, put on his Robin suit, and ninja out. All Robins in existence had cultivated the habit of getting away under Batman’s nose, and Damian had _perfected_  it. He was the best Robin there ever was, and who cared that he’d been voted “least cute Robin” in that stupid poll in that teen magazine he didn’t read. No-one, that’s who.

All he wanted to do was check his mail real quick before he headed out. That’s when he saw the little blinking envelope with Grayson’s name next to it. He clicked it, frowing.

_Hey birthday boy!_

Damian rolled his eyes.

_You rolled your eyes at that, didn’t you. Come on, you knew it was coming. Anyway, really sorry I missed out on your big day. I need some more time to wrap things up over here. But hey, I already got you a gift! It’s so cool it’ll make you have a facial expression, I swear. Let’s catch up when I’m back, okay? See you then._

_Dick._

He stared at the short message, sitting cross-legged on his bed. It was as if he could almost hear Grayson’s warm, genuine voice pour through the screen, and it … he didn’t want it to make him feel at ease and okay with the world, but it did –

And then, he read the PS.

_PS: Here’s some proof of how tough I have it. Look and weep!_

Damian clicked on the picture attached, and then he saw, he, he saw  _that_ , and time seemed to stop.

He stared at it. His mouth ran dry. His throat clogged up. His face grew hot. His first instinct was to slam the laptop shut or click the image away immediately, as if he was being caught looking at something … uncouth. But that was nonsense. It was just a stupid picture of –

It was just a stupid picture of Grayson, lying shirtless on the beach, waving dorkily to the camera. His raven-black hair looked messy and wet, as if he’d just emerged from the water; Damian almost thought he could see the salt crystals glinting in it. Grayson had been there for a week now, and his skin looked golden, evenly tanned … too evenly, really. Did … did he tan himself naked, or …

Damian’s adam’s apple rolled in his throat as he swallowed. His eyes darted toward the door, as if something disastrous would happen if Alfred or Father came in to catch him looking at Grayson’s silly beach photo, which was ridiculous –

… he was looking straight at the camera, eyes squinting against the sunlight, but still mischievous, somehow. His smile seemed to radiate through the screen. Damian’s gaze was somehow magically drawn further down, and he found to his devastation that his older friend’s nipples were almost  _more_  mesmerizing than his blue eyes were. They looked hard, probably because he’d gotten all wet, and now a light breeze was rolling … rolling over …

Damian caught himself absent-mindedly running his hand over his own chest, and stopped abruptly. His throat indeed felt very dry. He reached for the water bottle on his nightstand without taking his eyes off the picture. Then he forgot to drink.

Grayson was in a dark blue speedo. Why was he in a  _speedo_. Why didn’t he wear Bermuda shorts, like a normal person. It was a tight speedo, too. Now Damian was practically  _forced_  to look at his scarred, powerful thighs and his … powerful bulge, and wonder, and wonder …

He swallowed again, checked the door one more time – which was ludicrous, since he always locked himself in, anyway – and then his face seemed to burst into flame when he clicked ‘Save’.

He felt the sudden need to reach down and adjust his … himself in his pants. He rubbed his hand down the front. Once. Twice. He heard a hoarse, stifled noise and realized it was coming from him. He glanced sideways at Alfred, sleeping peacefully at the foot of his bed, and winced, suddenly feeling embarrassed in front of the  _cat_.

He took his hand out of his lap. No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t going to deface the precious memory of their partnership – one of the most precious memories he had – by … by  … no.

He clicked ‘X’, and Grayson and his perky nipples and his speedo bulge disappeared. The heat in Damian’s loins lingered. His heart was fluttering. He stared at his desktop, unsure what to do.

Right. Patrol.

That was a good idea. Nothing better than delivering tough justice to some of Gotham’s darkest corners to wash the shame away. And if he got in trouble with Father for it later, even better. He probably deserved it on some level. It was something he knew and expected. Unlike … unlike this.

Damian got up from the bed, prompting the cat to look up in interest. He stood in the middle of the room and did a few stretching exercises - to prepare, and to make his blood run into any other direction than where it currently was. He punched the air, performed a few high kicks–

-rolled back onto his bed, and opened the picture again. He looked at it with wide eyes, head tilted to one side. He’d been taught to study pictoral evidence in excessive detail from an early age, and right now, that habit proved  _devastating_.

It  _awoke_  something in him.

He closed the window again. Took the file, put it in the trash bin. Closed his laptop.

It was crazy; he’d worked alongside the man, which meant he’d seen him in various states of undress. But … but that had been when he was ten, before the onset of puberty, and now it was … it was all different. He tried to exorcize it, tried to remember Grayson as Batman on all fours in that alley, retching, vomiting out all that poison after their encounter with Tophana The Poison Queen. But not even that gross image made the salt water glistening on his naked chest in that photo less appealing. Come to think of it, even the idea of him on all fours in his Batsuit seemed vaguely erotic –

No. No no no.

Damian felt a warm swirl in the pit of his stomach, and considered looking at some pornography online (it wasn’t as if he was a stranger to that) to … diverge his interest, but he knew it would not be the same. Because that, that photo, it was for  _him_ , and Grayson’s smile was for  _him_  because it was his birthday, and the thought made his thighs shiver as if someone was blowing cold air across them. And he knew that, even if he did look at other naked men now, he’d just see Grayson’s smile superimposed over all of them, and somehow, that felt even sleazier.

After some consideration, he opened his laptop again, and fished the file out of the trash.

Needless to say, he didn’t sneak out and got himself into trouble that night.

The last thing he did was gently shooing the cat out of the room before he locked it, lied down with his belly pressed to his bed, and opened the picture file again.

The next morning found him quiet and sullen. He’d been up for most of the night with his … laptop. But since he was quiet and sullen all the time, nobody grew suspicious. For what it was worth, last night’s … repeated debasement had made him humble, somehow. He thanked Alfred for the cake, and complimented him for his breakfast grapefruit until it earned him a puzzled, but genuine smile. He sent out a few messages thanking people for attending his party. He even socialized with Father a little. He mumbled something to him about Grayson writing in for his birthday, which prompted a grunt of approval. Damian didn’t tell him about the photo. He wouldn’t tell anybody about it. He wouldn’t show it to anyone, either. It was  _his_.

"You should write him back," Father suggested, shoving files back and forth on his animated screen. "Dick. He likes that sort of thing."

"Tt, of course I will," Damian scoffed, offended, "That’s a matter of courtesy, I’m not some - "

Then he suddenly became very embarrassed, and had to excuse himself.

In the afternoon, he sat down to type a reply.

_Grayson_

_Message received and noted. Thanks. Your absence at my party was sorely felt._

_Damian._

_PS: Send more pics_

He blinked at the screen, unable to fathom he just wrote that. He shook his head. Seeing Grayson’s name in writing alone made his face heat up, and coaxing him into sending more beach pictures seemed downright unsavory, considering what he’d done with the one he’d received. Eventually, he deleted everything after “Thanks” except for his name, and sent the truncated message. It had to suffice, and it sounded more like him, anyway

Then, he went down into the Cave and pummeled a punching bag ‘til it fell off the ceiling.

In the following days and nights, Grayson’s photo completely ruined Damian’s life, in a way that also made it infinitely better, somehow. It was very vexing.

On one hand, his sleeping schedule went even more lopsided than it was anyway, and he found it harder to concentrate - at school, on patrol, pretty much everywhere. On the other hand, he now had something else to look forward to other than walking Titus, and being Robin. Opening his laptop every night, looking at that picture, and letting his … mind wander, and then his fast, busy hands, too. Whenever he woke up from a night like that, he found his mood considerably brightened. And the shame he felt over it made him more compliant and agreeable, which miraculously served to improve his relationships.

Facing Grayson in person upon his return seemed more and more taxing, though.

It had gotten to the point where Damian had started spinning whole stories around that picture. It wasn’t just a photo now, it was the starting point for multiple adventures he and Grayson could have (even though they, uh, all ended more or less the same way). Sometimes, Grayson would be an alluring art thief and Damian was the hotshot Interpol agent chasing him, and it was all very dangerous and exotic. Sometimes, Damian was the dashing, daredevil bush pilot and Grayson the mysterious island beauty with the dark past. Or they’d be Batman and Robin again, saving the world, then making passionate love on the beach after saving the world. Most of the time, however, he imagined them just being them, Dick and Damian, and that was the best, really. He imagined himself rolling through the sand with him, pressed against Grayson’s warm, oiled-up skin, imagined how Grayson’s chest would rumble as he laughed at something really witty and hilarious Damian just said that he’d think of later. He imagined him somehow not having a problem with his age, and touching him in … all the places, inviting him to do the same in his warm, friendly voice.

It was more than just lust. Damian was sixteen, he  _knew_  lust, and you didn’t go through all these scenarios for just lust. And that was a problem.

It made him very nervous when he went to the airport with Pennyworth to welcome him back. He did it because he had nothing better to do, of course. And because Father had sent him, after Damian had asked him seven times who was going to pick up Grayson.

"I don’t think he needs someone to pick him up," Father had said, eyebrow raised. "Dick is probably very tired. And he knows perfectly well where his apartment is."

"Okay, FINE, I’ll do it!" Damian had snapped, and stomped out to tell Pennyworth to get the car ready.

Grayson did look tired when he emerged from the plane, fully dressed. (Damian wasn’t sure why he’d expected him to come out in his tight speedos. It made no sense.) But his tanned face lit up when he saw Damian waiting outside, and he raised an arm to wave at him.

"Alfred!" He called out.

Damian frowned. Right. Pennyworth was there, too. Well, it was probably polite to greet the elders first -

His heart skipped a beat when he heard Grayson exclaim: “Damian!”

At least, Grayson went to hug Damian  _first_. He dropped his bags, dove in, swooped him right into his arms, and Damian realized a beat too late how awkward the  _hugging_  was, now. He froze in in his arms like a stalagtite. His limbs and torso suddenly seemed utterly incompatible with each other and refused service. He felt very hot. Grayson’s hair was very nice-smelling.

"Whoa," Grayson said, once he was done, still holding on to him by his shoulders, "I think that was our stiffest one yet."

Damian felt red swirling over his face. “Excuse me,” he muttered. His brain had shut down when Grayson said “stiff”, and he hadn’t processed that whole sentence.

"The hug. You somehow gained a whole new level of stiffness while I was gone." His older friend smiled at him. Damian found it hard to look at it, like you couldn’t look directly at the sun without going blind. Also, he wasn’t sure if there was some sort of universal tell that said, ‘I’ve been masturbating furiously to thoughts of you’ that Grayson was maybe familiar with, being a detective and experienced in intercourse and all that.

Also, he wished Grayson would stop saying “stiff” all the time.

"Well." The acrobat mercifully, tragically let go of him with a soft, affectionate pat on the shoulders. "I’m gonna have to get you used to it again. Or," he tilted his head to one side with an inquiring look on his face. "I could, you know, dial it down for a while?" His smile turned a little less bright. "You’re sixteen now, you’re probably not really into hugs by older people. I mean, even  _less_  than you were, anyway. I get that.”

Damian was busy wincing at “older people”, so precious seconds went by before he realized he was being asked a question. “Oh. That. Well, I have no strong feelings either way. Keep doing it. OR don’t. I don’t know. It’s nothing to me,” he recited awkwardly.

It seemed like a string of disconnected words to him, but Grayson seemed content, anyway. He bit his lip, a twinkle in his eyes. He made a gesture as if he wanted to drag him into his arms again, but then he took one look at Damian’s frozen expression, and opted to shake his head instead, grinning. “ _Man_ , I’ve missed you.”

Damian wanted to say, “Me too”, but he didn’t, so he simply stood there, like an _idiot_.

"My, I think this calls for a picture!"

Damian flinched at the word, and spun around to glare at Pennyworth, who was fumbling with his old-fashioned camera.

"Master Richard, smile! Master Damian … do what you usually do."

Damian managed to squeeze out a “N-uh”, but then his breath got caught in his throat when Grayson threw his arm around his shoulders. His cheek was pressed against Damian’s when he smushed their faces together. The teenager moaned, and then squirmed, though probably not for the reason Grayson suspected when he mumbled, “Sorry ‘bout that. One last time, for Alfred?”

"Nhn," Damian responded, then tried not to close his eyes, blushing furiously as he inhaled Grayson’s fragrance again. He’d come out looking unfortunate in this picture. But he looked unfortunate in all his pictures age 12-16, so it probably wouldn’t get noticed.

"Man, I can’t wait to hang out with you again," Grayson chirped, lips moving against Damian’s skin.

"Ha-ah," the boy made, struggling to stave off the heat pooling in his underpants.

"Cheers!" Pennyworth called out, and then the flash exploded.

 

**—-**

It was two weeks after Damian’s eighteenth birthday when Dick received a text message from him.

_Grayson. I require you for a very important task. Come as soon as possible. Damian._

Dick wondered what it was while he took the elevator up to Damian’s luxurious suite. “A very important task” – in Damian’s case, that could mean a number of things, from “help me battle these 28 hired killers that I’ve found on my balcony” to “come admire my new stereo”. You never really knew if there was a life-threatening event going on, or if he simply wanted to hang out.

Which, if Dick was perfectly honest, was one of the things that made it so exciting to be friends with him.

To be prepared, he had packed his escrima sticks, a gaggle of smoke bombs,  _and_ a sixer with Italian lemonade.

The elevator doors opened directly into the apartment with a melodic “Ping”, and then Dick was faced with Damian hanging upside-down in his doorframe, doing crunches.

So. No contract killers, then. Good to know.

"I appreciate your timely arrival," the teenager drawled, not the slightest bit out of breath, while he continued to finish his set. His t-shirt had rolled up, revealing the hard, perfectly toned landscape of his upper body. He seemed to have been at it for a while, yet there wasn’t a drop of sweat on him. Dick forced himself to only look for a second; the sight kick-started a couple of thoughts and mental images he’d sworn to himself not to have.

He felt his ears grow hot, and quickly distracted himself by patting Titus, who’d bounced over to greet him, running excited circles around his legs.

"Good boy. Who’s my big boy?"

"…excuse me?"

Dick looked up again, flustered. “I was talking to, uh. To the dog.”

"Oh." Damian dangled in mid-air for a moment, then continued his exercise. "Of course."

Well, that had been mildly embarrassing. Dick quickly fished for another topic.

"What’s the occasion?" He wondered, while resisting the temptation to press the ice-cold lemonade cans against Damian’s naked skin to see him flinch. "I mean, not for you showing off, there’s always occasion for that, obviously. I mean, me being here."

Damian shot him a quick, upside-down look. Dick could see his sharp, ruthless eyes grow a little softer when they met his. This only ever seemed to happen with the pets, and - him. It had always been like that, and he always … he’d always liked it.

"I have a request –"

The boy swung around in mid-air, then landed squarely on his bare, deadly feet in front of Dick. The landing was a little heavy; Damian was still as nimble as a cat, but he’d be approaching Bruce-levels of bulkiness in no time. Now that he was slowly shedding the stilted awkwardness of his teen years, he was turning into someone so lethal and precise he didn’t only freak out Gotham’s criminals. He freaked people out across the board. Dick, not so much. Dick was awkward around him for … other reasons.

Anyway –

"Always happy to help," he said. "Need someone to show you how to heat milk again?"

Damian scowled. Dick grinned at him.

Since Damian had moved out of the Manor, it had turned out that, while he knew how to defuse a bomb with his feet while slapping around a dozen attackers, he was regularly baffled by everyday household appliances. Dick himself wasn’t really that much better at it, but he liked to dangle it over his head, anyway.

Dick chuckled. “Hey, it’s a possibility. Or else you wouldn’t be making that face.”

"It’s not that," Damian snapped. Now that he was growing older, his voice had gone from bratty to stern, which … well, it really made you listen. Still as bossy as ever, however.  "And honestly, I would call Pennyworth for that. You’re hopeless with dairy products, Grayson, unless they’re in a cereal bowl."

Dick scrunched up his nose. Eh. Touché.

Damian took a deep breath, which was odd, because his exercise seemed to have barely affected him. “Grayson,” he then said. “Are you familiar with the romantic convention of sending someone an … alluring photo of yourself to attract them as a lover?”

Dick cocked an eyebrow. “Am I,” he said dryly. It wasn’t something he did on purpose, but … he wasn’t exactly camera-shy. Pretty much all of his exes still had a cheesecake picture of him lying around somewhere. No matter how dramatic the break-up had been, none of those had ever been returned to him.

He was a little curious now. He’d never heard Damian utter the word “lover” before without looking like he wanted to throw up into a bucket.

"Looking to make a love connection…?" He asked.

He wasn’t sure why that felt so awkward, or why that didn’t sound as quippy as the thought it would. Two years ago, he would’ve gently mocked his younger friend to the point of receiving death threats for it, but now it felt … with the staring at his abs and into his steely blue eyes, it … it was …

Damian tried to play it off as no big deal, which was a surefire sign that he was mega-embarrassed to talk about it. “There’s … someone that I wish to send a token of my affection to. Something  _personal_. I’m eighteen now, I have my own place, I figured I might as well. I  _have_  people that are interested, you know.”

That last part came out defensive, almost pouty, accompanied by a sneaky look. Dick felt warmth wash over his face. “I don’t doubt that,” he said.

His gaze was drawn to Damian’s collarbone when the boy’s chest seemed to heave briefly at that. But when he looked back at his face, it was as stubbornly aloof as always. He sounded very formal when he said, “Grayson, I have asked you here because I trust your expertise and your discretion, and I want you to take some … alluring pictures of me.” He only stumbled the slightest bit over the last part.

"I assume you understand why I didn’t ask Pennyworth or Father to do it," he then added briskly, when Dick simply stared at him, unsure if he wanted to laugh, or "aaaw".

"Your Father is really good at posing for sexy photoshoots, though," Dick suddenly felt compelled to point out, before he realized what a terrible idea that was, "Have you seen his spread in -"

"NO!" Damian screwed his eyes shut, as if to erase that image from his mind, "And I don’t want … nobody needs to … let’s not talk about that now."

Dick bit his lip. “Right. Sorry.” And then, “Why didn’t you ask Tim? I mean, he’s the photographer in the family.”

Damian scoffed at that. “Sure, I’ll let   _Drake_  take seductive pictures of me,” he sneered, “And then he goes and photoshops rubber chickens into all of them.”

"Well. You  _did_  try to murder him once…”

Damian’s face darkened. “Will you  _ever_  let that go? I made my peace with him!”

He had. Damian actually had worked pretty hard to repair most of his relationships from between when he’d been a pocket-sized assassin, and the world’s most sullen teenager. Sometime around the time he’d turned sixteen, he’d somehow mellowed out a little. Dick wasn’t sure what it had been, but he liked to think all those play dates he’d dragged him on had played a part in it.

"Will you do it?" Damian’s voice was as brassy as ever, but there was a hint of vulnerability to it. "Grayson…?"

"We’re …" Dick cleared his throat. "We’re not talking nude pictures right now, are we? ‘cause that would be –"

"No," Damian hurried to say, looking mildly terrified. "Unless you’d … you’d recommend it?"

His face grew even darker. He looked at Dick earnestly, and with a genuine question in his eyes, and Dick suddenly realized that Damian didn’t really have anyone to talk about this stuff with. He had to step in here before the boy started to message pictures of his penis to people due to terrible misinformation.

"Not before the first date," he determined. "All right. I’ll do it."

"Good."

Damian looked satisfied at first. Then nervous. Then his voice sounded almost shy when he announced, “I’ll go put on my outfit now. I already selected one. You wait here.”

"Yeah, I wasn’t gonna –"

Damian strode off to his bedroom, leaving Dick alone with his unfinished sentence.

”- come and watch you change,” he mumbled to nobody.

It was kinda ridiculous. Way back when, he’d been around Damian changing dozens of times, and he’d never thought twice about it, and he surely shouldn’t be thinking about it n-

Dick decided to step out on the balcony to get some air, and also empty a can of lemonade in record time.

He took out his cellphone to fumble around with the camera settings. He was much better at having his picture taken than actually take them, so hopefully Damian’s standards weren’t too high. Or the standards of the person he was attempting to woo. He wondered who it was.

It took Damian a while to change. Dick wasn’t sure what “appealing” meant in Damian’s world, and he was kinda nervously anticipating it; with the time he took, he probably wouldn’t be coming out in his swimming trunks, though. Which was an odd thought, anyway. Why would he come out in  _swimming trunks_  -

He was distracted from his pointless speculating when he heard his tense voice behind him.

"Here. I’m ready."

Dick turned around, and couldn’t keep a quiet “Whoa,” from escaping him.

Damian scoffed, but it was obvious that his reaction was pleasing him. “Oh,” he drawled extra-casually, looking down at his 8000-Dollar Armani suit that made him look like the world’s most banging Arab-Chinese spy, “ _That_  old thing?”

"Shut up," Dick said almost reflexively, gazing at him.

Damian’s eyes narrowed, which didn’t make him look less attractive in the slightest. “Don’t say that to me.”

Seconds went by; Dick wasn’t sure how many. And he didn’t snap out of it until Damian muttered, “Grayson. You can’t say  _that_  to me, but please say _something_.”

"Right! Yeah." Dick realized he was gaping at him, and tried to remedy that by poking his finger in his direction. "That - Yep, that’ll work," he heard himself squawk. His eyes wandered to the red rose that Damian was holding.                                                                                                                    The teenager became flustered. “That’s … it’s nothing. I decided I wanted a prop. It was either this or a knife. Do you think I should hold the knife instead? I’m not sure that’s the message I want to get across –”

"You’re perfect," Dick said hoarsely, trying to sound like a photographer, but he wasn’t a photographer, and it didn’t come out that way.

"Hn." Damian gave him that fleeting, covert look again, before stalking over to the balustrade. By this point, they’d acquired an audience consisting of Titus and Alfred, both sitting attentively by the door watching the proceedings.

"I was thinking," Damian said, a little stiffly, "I’d stand here, with the city as backdrop, and then I’d maybe …" He trailed off and cast Dick a helpless look, blood pulsing in his cheeks. "Grayson, you’re the director! Give me directions!"

Dick blinked at him. Damian bit his full lower lip. “I know you’re good at posing, because … because I lived at Wayne Manor and I’m not  _blind_ , and the whole place is  _plastered_  with your face,” he added morosely.

Well. That seemed like an exaggeration. But he had a point; Dick was good at posing, definitely better than Damian, who seemed frankly horrible at it. He looked smoking hot in his suit, but he stood there wide-legged and with clenched fists, as if he was about to pummel someone’s face in. The rose was already drooping between his steely fingers.

Dick couldn’t let him introduce himself to a crush like that.

He sighed. “Okay, so. This is for someone you  _like_ , right?”

There was an odd pause before Damian mumbled, “…Yes.”

Dick raised his camera phone. “Good. So … d’you wanna try maybe smiling or … not standing in your battle stance?”

Damian looked down at his legs. “Oh.” He tried to stand more naturally, with decent success. Dick could see his strong, toned arms straining in the sleek black suit when he put them on the balustrade. He fumbled around with the rose for a while, before he eventually lost patience, and unceremoniously tossed it off the balcony, which made Dick laugh.

And Damian looked up and smiled.

…

…

…

The problem was, Damian looked mean when he smiled. He probably didn’t intend to, but he simply did. Dick found the shark-like quality of that smile kinda heartwarming, but for what he was planning, maybe something … softer would be better.

"Hey," he called out to him, face behind the lens. "Try something for me. Picture the person you like. Can you picture them?"

The look Damian gave him would have melted steel. His “Yes,” sounded a little strained when he murmured it through his teeth.

Wow. He  _really_  liked that person.

Dick swallowed, hard. “All. All right. Now … imagine you’re kissing them.  _Don’t_ make a kissy face, trust me, you’ll  _always_  come out looking like a duck, but … just … imagine it?”

He totally expected Damian to protest that suggestion, to say it was too intimate or that Dick should stop embarrassing him, or something … but he seemed very compliant, very eager to make this work. He nodded, lowered his gaze and licked his lips, maybe in concentration, or maybe because of what he was picturing.

When he looked up again, it almost knocked the air out of Dick’s lungs. He didn’t look … softer, in the slightest. He looked even harsher, if that was possible. But the pure, unambiguous notion of  _want_  on his face was so raw it nearly made Dick drop his phone. It suddenly occurred to him how passionate both Bruce and Talia were, and that all their passion must have went into this … this child, who wasn’t a child anymore. Dick felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand up … and then his nipples, too, to make things even weirder.

If this was anywhere near Damian’s bedroom stare … holy intensity.

"Is this good," Damian growled, voice suddenly seeming much deeper to Dick than before, "How am I doing."

"Great." Dick sounded flimsy. "You’re uh … coming on pretty strong."

"Is that good or bad," the boy inquired, not once looking away.

"It depends," Dick said truthfully. "That person you like, do they scare easily?"

Damian’s lips parted in a smile, and combined with the look he was giving him, his wicked grin turned almost weaponized.

"No," he said quietly. "I wouldn’t like them if they did."

And that was it. Those eyes. That smile. Dick was no photographer, but that was the perfect shot. He hit the button.

"Done."

"Oh." Once he heard that, Damian’s face went back to its usual frowning state, and the spell was broken. Barely.  "Let me see."

He came over, and there was a strange moment of reluctance before he leaned in to look at Dick’s phone. Dick noticed that they were pretty much the same height; Damian could’ve put his chin on his shoulder if he’d wanted to. The suit smelled fresh and clean and exquisite. Damian’s body felt lean and hard against his. His eyes seemed indefinitely blue beneath thick dark lashes

"Hmmm," the boy made, appraising his portrait. Dick felt himself staring at his lips while he let out another soft hum. "Grayson, do you think I should’ve shown more skin? Be honest."

Dick squinted down at his phone. The picture was incredible. For a picture. Dick found it hard to make eye contact with it; it was like having sex with Damian through a tiny screen, which felt … wrong …

He had the sudden, irrational desire to punch whichever person was going to receive this.

"I, er."

"Don’t answer that." Damian gave him a soft pat on the shoulder, then started loosening the fly around his neck. "I’ve made up my mind. Let’s move it to the couch. I hope you didn’t make any plans. We’ll take a few shirtless ones, too."

"Ha-ah," Dick made, grabbing another can of lemonade and pressing it to his forehead to cool at least  _one_  portion of his body, while he watched Damian unbuttoning, delicious copper skin becoming visible underneath crisp white. He probably didn’t  _intend_  to torment Dick, but the point was, he did it, anyway.

This’d be one long, hot afternoon.

Three days later, Dick still hadn’t recovered from that whole experience. His knees still started shaking when he thought back on it. Hovering over Damian to snap shirtless photos of him on the couch had probably done something long-lasting to his psyche. He’d imagined putting his lips on his sun-kissed, dark skin so hard, he could basically still taste it on his tongue, even though that touch had never happened. Well, at least the photos had turned out  _excellent_. Dick had sent them to Damian and then deleted them from his phone as if they were on fire. Because if he didn’t, he -

He figured it didn’t matter. Damian would send that picture to whomever he wanted to impress, and they’d probably go out, and then  _that_  person would be sucking on Damian’s skin, and then Dick would come into their house at night and put gum in their hair. By which he meant, of course, he’d be a buddy and congratulate Damian on his romantic success and do nothing like that. ‘cause that’s what a good buddy did.

By the end of the third day, however, he found the blinking envelope in his inbox, with Damian’s name next to it, and a bunch of pictures attached.

Dick was puzzled for a second. Then, he was glad he was already on his bed with his laptop, because his legs turned to jelly when it all finally, beautifully came together in his head. He swallowed once, twice, before he opened the message. There was something about the wording that seemed familiar to him, but he wasn’t sure why.

_Come on. You knew it was coming._

_Damian._

_PS: I needed to make sure they would be to your liking. Now I am._

Dick’s finger hovered over the mouse for a heartbeat. Then, a nervous smile spread across his face when he took another breath, and clicked ‘Open’.


End file.
